


The Big Day

by Mianmaru



Category: Groundhog Day - Fandom, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Declarations Of Love, Everybody Dies, Everybody Lives, First Kiss, First Time, Groundhog Day, Hugs and Awkwardness, M/M, Trigger Warning for Watson Wedding, UST, otp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 02:39:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7667095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mianmaru/pseuds/Mianmaru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s going to marry the woman he loves.<br/>A brilliant, confident and funny nurse.</p><p>Right? </p><p>Right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 18th May

“John? John, I am leaving now.” 

Lips press a chaste kiss onto his forehead as he blinks his eyes open.

“Morning.” Is all John manages before turning away from the bright sunlight that is falling through their window. Distantly, he recognizes Mary’s retreating steps and feels inexplicably lighter. She keeps talking to him but his sleep addled brain doesn’t even try to keep up.

A light breeze is coming through the open window, cool air making leaving the bed seem even more of a bad idea. He pulls the blanket higher, effectively shadowing his eyes from the unrelenting light.

 

Dozing off again proves harder than he’d hoped as reality settles around him. Outside, Mary is calling Janine to let her know that she’s on her way to get a manicure for the  Big Day _. _ Not for the first time, he notices how much her behaviour depends on the conversational partner. It seems especially different with Janine, though.

After a few minutes of idle chit-chatting about  Wedding-Hair , sitting arrangements and the burden of entertaining Sherlock (which Janine will have to carry during the reception), Mary eventually gets in the car.

John takes that as a sign to finally get up.

\--------

 

_ Breath!  _

 

_ In….. _

_ Out…… _

_ In…………. _

_ Out………………. _

 

_ Bloody shaking! _

The buttons seem too wide for their holes. The shirt itself uncomfortable at best. Another deep breath while John clenches his hand against the tremor that’s been haunting him since he left the shower. 

In 40 minutes he has to leave for church. The thought makes his insides cramp and the urge to sit down with closed eyes and his head between his knees is almost overwhelming. Instead, he stares at his reflection in the mirror.

 

He looks good.

Ready.

 

Fumbling, he texts Sherlock.

 

**When will you be at the church?**

Another glance at the mirror confirms that his hair is alright. He wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway. Maybe a swirl back…

 

**Already there. No guests, yet. No need to hurry. SH**

 

Even though Sherlock being as considerate as he was with everything concerning the wedding still feels odd, knowing that he will be there when John arrives relieves a bit of the tension that was threatening to push him right into an anxiety attack.

And what does he even have to be anxious about. He’s going to marry the woman he loves. A brilliant, confident and funny nurse.

Right? 

Right.

He will get used to the cats.

For a moment, John entertains the idea of walking to church. He’d be half an hour late if he gave into the desire to do so. 

 

That’s a No, then. 

He’s tempted, though. Very. Instead he treats himself with a scone and cranberry jam. The term  last meal makes an appearance in the back of his mind but is quickly dismissed.

\-----------

The short cab ride taking him to the church is uneventful apart from the driver's constant babble. Apparently, marriage isn’t for everyone. John agrees.

\-----------

 

He is standing at the altar. It feels as if he’s been standing there for hours. The flowers in his buttonhole press heavy against his chest, their weight only lessened when John looks at the similar bouquet adorning Sherlock’s suit. 

Sherlock, who had waited at the entrance to the church and let his gaze wander over John checking for flaws in his appearance. Mere seconds they had looked into each other’s eyes, their silence not as comfortable as usual but heavy, while the detective had affixed the flowers to his lapel.

Now that he remembers his arrival, John realises that they both had remained silent throughout.

Suddenly it feels more like a burial than an actual wedding and he swallows hard.

 

_ In…. _

_ Out…… _

His fingernails will breach the skin of his palms if he doesn’t open his fists soon. A single drop of sweat his running down his neck. He tries to shake it off but the feeling of dread crawls higher up John’s spine. In the front row, Mrs. Hudson smiles at him in a reassuring way while Greg’s expression is a clear display of worry. 

Mike didn’t even bother to show up.

 

_ What the hell am I doing here? _

 

“Sherlock.” he whispers. Only a second later, John feels long fingers brush against the knuckles of his left hand.

“Am I making a mistake?” John asks without taking his eyes off the church door. He notices the pleading tone of his voice without being able to suppress it. Seconds tick by until Sherlock’s hand closes around his wrist and he’s pulled to turn leftwards. His panic has not subsided and he has a hard time focussing on the concerned expression on his best friends face.

He knows that Sherlock is trying to give him the answer he needs, is scanning his face to find out what John really wants. Grey eyes roaming over every minute detail of his, doubtlessly haunted, expression.

 

“Yes.” He whispers back at last, obviously surprised by his own conclusion.

John exhales shakily and nods to nobody in particular. “Alright then… I guess I should….”

 

The Wedding March starts to play.

Both men turn to look past the crowd to see Mary stepping through the entrance. The moment their eyes meet John gives it all away with one resigned look to the ground. He can not hold her gaze and he can very much not go through with this.

The attendees watch as her expression shifts from excited to shocked to furious. In an almost comic impression of a hive mind all heads turn on John but before he can crumble under the weight of the situation, Sherlock steps right in front of him, effectively shielding him from 80 wide eyes.

Feeling helpless, John takes a deep breath while his mouth forms the soundless question for an exit.

Pointedly, the consulting detective looks at a door behind the altar before turning his back at him and addressing the crowd.

“Thank you for attending… This.” He makes an all encompassing gesture with his right arm. “Time to go home, now. Take your gifts with you on the way out.” Ignoring the excited chatter his short statement causes, he gives John a shove in the right direction and follows him out.

Behind them Mary yells, calling him a coward for not facing her. A Bastard. And various other things that make Sherlock’s mouth tighten with rage. 

 

John feels like rubbish. Especially because of the relieved breath he releases the moment the door closes behind him and he’s standing in the graveyard. A mad giggle is threatening to bubble up when Sherlock reacts to Mary’s still nearing voice by running towards the open gate a few meters ahead of them.

When they are out the gate they just keep on running until  neither of them is still able to breathe. It occurs to John that they are probably looking as if they just eloped, with their matching suits and flowers and wide grins plastered all over their faces.

Only after catching their breath and a cab to Baker Street, realisation sets in.

“Oh, fuck!” And it’s definitely time to bury his head in his hands and tumble into a full blown anxiety attack. If not now….

“Suppose it is too late to go back.” Sherlock mutters uncertainly. A dry laugh is all the answer he receives.

John can feel the detective’s eyes on him trying to find out what the self-proclaimed sociopath is expected to do now.

“Just let me…” He tells the floor of the cab.

Pressing himself against the window and staring outside, Sherlock gives him space to breathe.

 

When they reach Baker Street, Sherlock holds the door for him after paying the cabbie.

“Could you ask...” 

“Yes.” Sherlock interrupts him and sends a text to Mycroft.

 

Without stopping to pull off his jacket John collapses on the couch. At least the bouquet on his lapel is pressing into his chest for a reason, now.

  
  


He doesn’t know how much time he’s spent laying on his face and loathing himself but when John feels Sherlock’s hand awkwardly resting on his back, he can hear Mrs. Hudson rummaging through their kitchen and complain about the lack of biscuits and Sherlock’s apparent sweet tooth.

Reluctantly, he faces the world again by turning his head in the direction of the fuss. And what a sight it is.

The angry look he receives from Mrs. Hudson’s  is just slightly less annoying than the pity on Sherlocks face as the tall man folds himself in the chair opposite him.

“Mrs. Hudson, would you…” John motions towards the stairs. With a  _ Tsk  _ and a shake of her head, she carries her offended expression out.

“Thai?” Sherlock asks quietly as he watches John struggle into an upright position and out of his suit jacket.

“Please.” That John doesn’t get up to order catches Sherlock off guard for a second but then the former best man takes out his phone and sends an email. That’s when John considers that he’s probably not only disappointed Mary.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Sherlock drawls unimpressed, reading his thoughts just as any other day.

“Well… um… You put a lot of work and effort in this… disaster. So, um…”

“True. Nonetheless, your worry is wasted on me.”

John shifts on the couch while he’s searching for the right words. “Thank you?” He narrows his eyes to see if his apology was necessary. Apparently, it really wasn’t but he remembers something else.

“Greg told me that you had a hard time with the speech, though.” A dismissive gesture and a look to the side is all he receives this time. It picks his interest. Avoiding eye contact is rather unusual for the arrogant detective.

“May I see?” He enquires calmly.

“What for? Maybe I still have to hold it one day. Don’t you want to be surprised?” Sherlock answers evasively.

“No.” Johns not in the mood for games right now. Nor for subtlety. “I don’t think there will be another wedding day debacle in my life, thank you.”

Sherlock winces faced with John’s bitter voice. Without further delay, he pulls a stack of cards from the inner pocket of his expensive suit and puts them into John’s outstretched hand before he departs into the bathroom.

 

“Sherlock!” John calls after him, only having read the highlighted parts. “Would you come here, please?”

Dressed in a shirt and pyjama bottoms, Sherlock emerges his room and gives John a challenging look that falls apart the moment he realises that John is about to hug him.

It’s a bit awkward. Sherlock bending stiffly forward and holding John way too tight and the shorter man muttering quietly “I’m not obsessed with you.”. They are already hugging a tad too long when the doorbell rings.

“Ok…” John says, releasing Sherlock from his arms and watching him descend the stairs.

He puts two plates on the couch table when he hears Sherlock downstairs.

“You’re not gonna….” The deep baritone voice is interrupted by the sound of something like high pressured air and then John can hear something heavy hit the floor. He knows that sound. John refuses to acknowledge it but he knows that sound. He turns to the stairs and reaches them in only a second.

 

At first his eyes cannot comprehend the view down to the front door. He is frozen in place. Blinking rapidly, he tries to make something else of it than Sherlock slumped backwards on the first two stairs. Tries to push away a memory with a similar picture but less blood in Sherlock’s hair and clothes. Empty grey eyes staring nowhere..

Mouth agape, he still hasn’t accepted this reality when Mary raises the gun. Light, almost as white as her dress, is reflected from the polished silencer. John’s heart seems to stutter against his ribcage

“Bye, John.”

He doesn’t notice the bullet as it enters his brain. Doesn’t feel his legs giving out underneath him. 

 

John’s eyes stay fixed at Sherlock.


	2. 18th May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gun stuffed into the back of his pants, John feels more in control.

18th May

“John? John, I am leaving now.”

Lips press a chaste kiss onto his forehead as he blinks his eyes open.

“Morning.” Is all John manages because he’s suddenly wide awake. He’s breathing rapidly. His eyes wide open while they fill with tears. Mary’s still talking to him although he is definitely in shock and does not dare move as long as she plays the happy bride.

 

Maybe she’s psychotic. She most definitely is, now that he thinks about it. The light implies that it really is morning. The last evening is replaying in his mind, his respiration ragged until he has searched his entire head for the entry wound and forcibly takes control over every intake of breath.

Mary goes outside. She has an amazing memory. Or she’s got cameras around. Or at least wiretaps.

John can’t imagine her being able to repeat every useless phrase about hair and Sherlock without some kind of transcript.

Sherlock…

As soon as Mary’s car starts, John is out of bed and pulling on sweatpants and a shirt. Mrs. Hudson answers the phone at the second ring just as he steps outside.

“John? What is it? I was just leaving the house?” She sounds a bit put off.

“Is Sherlock…?” He does not bear to say the most important word. Not again.

“Yes! He already left half an hour ago. I am sure he is arriving at the church just now.” John sits down hard in his doorway. Everything seems to fade around him as Mrs. Hudson complains about him stopping her from being on time too. “Don’t worry, he would never let you down.” She whispers confidentially.

“I know.” John says stunned and hangs up on her without another word.

  
  


He has to check his texts.

 

Apparently, yesterday doesn’t exist in his phone either.

**Bakerstreet. Now. Don’t tell anybody.**

He still feels dizzy. The world seemingly having decided to get stuck on this horribly unfortunate day.

The vibration of his phone makes his pulse race and press against the inside of his skull in quick succession.

**On my way. SH**

John feels like crying, or laughing, or both. He does none of these, though. 

He just remains sitting. Reading the message again and again, he wants to answer just because he can. 

The image of Sherlock’s dead eyes is still too fresh in his mind for him to consider it all being a dream, delusion or simply fake.

The text sounds exactly like Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson didn’t make a forced impression. Mary left as she was supposed to. Would she leave if he was being in some kind of twisted hostage situation?

He doesn’t see anybody close by, not even a moving curtain or cars passing his house. He doesn’t have the impression of being under surveillance.

 

It doesn’t make sense to him. Nothing does. He needs Sherlock. Sherlock will know what to do.

John walks back into the house, the door never having had the chance to close. 

 

\--------

The gun stuffed into the back of his pants, John feels more in control. At the main street he hails a cab and can’t believe his own luck. He recognizes the cab driver by his hair the moment he sits in the back.

“Didn’t you drive me to a wedding yesterday?” The cabbie seems unperturbed by his conversational question, shaking his head immediately.

“Didn’t work yesterday.” He mumbles before falling into a familiar monologue about the obsoleteness of marriage.

“You know, marriage just isn’t for everyone.”

John, puzzled but wholeheartedly, agrees.

\-------

Apparently, Sherlock is still on his way when he arrives at Bakerstreet. With great care, John looks for traces of blood or maybe a completely different carpet at the bottom of the stairs. 

What if he was being lured into a trap? Somebody could have hidden a bomb, drenched everything with fuel or poisoned each surface of the flat. He could be breathing something toxic right now.

Before John can panic because of his apparently pretty good imagination, there’s the sound of a key being turned in the door. Tensing where he’s kneeling on the floor, he waits for an explosion/  shot/ knife attack.

“John?”

“Sherlock.” He sighs in relief. In the blink of an eye he has turned around and is giving the astonished consulting detective a bear hug. John can feel Sherlock’s heartbeat thumping steadily in his chest as a huff of breath ruffles the hair on his head.

A minute later, John releases the obviously frozen man to look at him in all his living, breathing glory.

Sherlock’s still not moving. He keeps on blinking as if his brain is refusing to participate in this interaction.

John watches for a few seconds before he decides to take the inactive man by the wrist and very slowly pull him up into the flat. 

 

At least he’s moving his feet.

 

\--------

Halfway up the stairs, Sherlock apparently  _ reboots _ or something and stops blinking. As they step into the parlour he takes a deep breath and pulls his hand out of John’s grip.

“Why were you thinking something happened to me?” He asks, coming straight to the point.

Sherlock will think he’s lost it. John is certain that it wouldn’t be a good idea to tell anyone what he’s experiencing right now.

“Just a feeling I had.” He wouldn’t even be able to convince himself with his eyes downcast and his voice small like that but there is a picture of a straightjacket at the forefront of his mind.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. There is not much John can do but to wait until Sherlock asks the next question or states a fact. Trying to avoid the weight of that analytic gaze, John gets a pen and paper and starts making a list.

“Your fiancée will be entering the church in 10 minutes. You are obviously lying about your reason to be worried for me, you came here carrying your gun  and you are writing a chronological list of completely irrelevant events.”

“Obviously.” John replies unimpressed.

“You are not planning to get married today.” It’s not a question.

“No.” 

“Care to explain?”

“No, I actually don’t.” John answers, trying to remember more things for the list. Unfortunately, aside of the obvious two, there are not many interesting events that happened yesterday/today.

As John looks up, it hits him hard how glad he is that Sherlock is right there. Alive and well.

“You look good.” He says smiling. The bouquet has been crushed between them and is dangling loosely from the lapel of a rumpled suit.

“I know.” Sherlock replies, blushing despite his feigned arrogance. It makes John’s chest do something strange he doesn’t want to contemplate until tomorrow.

 

“Let’s go out!” He proposes overtly cheerful. “As I am not going to get a nice three-course meal….”

“You are scared.” Sherlock states without moving while he watches John check the time on his phone. “We’ve got another eight minutes until Mary notices something’s off.” He adds, shrugging of his jacket.

“I am not going to marry her. And I am not going to give you a reason for that.” John states confidently. “Not until this day is over, at least.”

 

They are just trying to stare each other down as John’s phone chimes.

**WHERE ARE YOU???**

It’s Greg. At first, John isn’t sure if he should answer but decides against it. He doesn’t think that Mary would harm one of their guests.

He expects her to take longer this time if she’s coming for them again. After all, he is not leaving her at the altar. She might wait thinking he’s simply too late. She’s gonna stand outside of the church, their guests getting impatient and bored and when she realizes that he’s not going to show up… Well.

John tries to feel bad for her. Tries to find a small inkling of pity underneath the revulsion and hatred that thinking about her causes and comes up empty handed.

Good.

Of course, 221B is still a bad choice of location. As soon as she notices that Sherlock is missing too, she will be on her way. If Mrs. Hudson hasn’t told everyone already that John called her earlier and Sherlock hasn’t been at the church when she arrived.

“You have to trust me, Sherlock.” He says in earnest.”Do you?”

“Implicitly.” Sherlock simply says.

It hangs heavy in the air between them.

 

“What is the safest place you know?” 

“Aldabra.” Sherlock states after considering the question.

“Al…? Somewhere we can get to today, Sherlock!” John is pretty sure Alibaba is too far for a day trip.

“My brothers house.” Sherlock admits grudgingly. John doesn’t like the idea either but there is no helping it.

 

“Ok...Well...Lead the way!” He prompts.

 

As soon as the door closes behind them, John sees a flicker of white in his peripheral vision before he’s shoved to the ground, pain exploding in his neck. Immediately, he feels hot blood pulsing down his chest and soaking his shirt. 

The ground in front of Sherlock’s feet is a sudden presence in the right side of his face.  

“John.” The consulting detective breathes before falling to his knees. Sherlock pushes his hand hard against the open wound John’s life is spilling out of.

 

_ This is a fatal shot  _ the rational part of John’s mind supplies as he feels the warm wetness pool around his face.

“I am going to…” Sherlock grounds out between his teeth as the sound of a silencer interrupts him.

In his blurring vision, John notices the man’s body being slammed backwards.

With all of his remaining strength, he tries to grab Sherlock’s hand. As their fingertips touch, John draws a final breath.

\-------

18th May

Lips press a chaste kiss onto his forehead as he blinks his eyes open. Without haste and ignoring Mary’s excited chatter, John grabs into the lowermost drawer of his bedside table and pulls out his gun.

Mary is surprisingly silent, wearing an expression John has never seen on anyone. A mixture between anger and defeat.

He sits up. Aims. She still doesn’t move but her face lights up with an almost feral grin.

“I should have killed you when I was told to. But I am pretty certain you don’t have the guts to kill me, anyway.”

John shrugs before the shot rings out loud in their small bedroom. With no small amount of satisfaction, John watches the dawning understanding in Mary’s face. The mirror behind her split when the bullet left her body and his reflection is just as broken as he feels.. After all, he is a crack shot. If it wasn’t for the huge amount of blood, he would probably be able to look right through the wound in the middle of her throat. As it is, she is clutching her hands around her neck trying to stop the bleeding. It’s a lost cause. After less than 15 seconds, Mary collapses out of sight, hidden by the food of the bed.

 

Longer than expected, John waits for the police to show up. He hands the gun over and tells them everything. A psychologist will be talking to him, soon.

Who cares? 

Certainly not him.

\-----------

18th May

His eyes fly open as lips touch his forehead. Silently, John waits for his fiancée to leave the house before he gets himself ready.

Half an hour later, he is standing opposite of Speedy’s. Yesterday’s events, or today's, or … (Well.) were oddly satisfying but their outcome is not something John wants to repeat. While he had been talking to the psychologist, Lestrade and Sherlock arrived. Of course, everybody at the Yard had at least heard of John’s connection to Lestrade (and Sherlock).

He had refused to explain the reason for killing Mary in this admittedly ruthless way and still Sherlock had insisted they let him go. Lestrade had been less understanding. Shaking his head repeatedly, he had watched John like one would watch a wayward animal that came too close out of nowhere. 

He had fallen asleep on a hard prison bench, the only thing on his mind being Sherlock’s survival of May 18th.

 

He rings repeatedly at the first floor flat but nobody answers. There is a name on the plate but also dust on the handle and cobwebs at the door frame. He has learned one or two things from Sherlock what means it is easy to pick the lock and just enter.

The flat is much cleaner on the inside which is a bit of a relief to John who has already a plan forming in the back of his mind.

 

He brought binoculars and his laptop. He’s well prepared to see this through.

 

After 2 hours, 4 text messages and one unanswered call, he watches Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock arrive. Mary isn’t in sight as far as John can tell. He watches as the consulting detective holds the door for his landlady and nods with a grave expression. John can imagine their conversation in depth. Mrs. Hudson’s judgmental purse of lips and gesticulating hands telling him all he has to know about her opinion on John’s betrayal towards ‘poor Mary’, a wording he can read from the movement of her mouth. 

A wording that seems to be just as repetitive as this day in general.

As the door closes, John loses sight of them. Sherlock arrives in the flat alone. Grinning like a madman he looks out the window which makes John step further back into the dark flat to avoid being seen.

He watches as Sherlock balls his fists and turns to the side just to do a little jump. John laughs aloud. It’s not the first time he sees that act of happiness but it never lost it’s charm. 

Endearing is the word coming to John’s mind.

Still smiling, he sits down besides the window and starts his laptop. Time to do some research on ‘poor Mary’. 

He is not as good at that as Sherlock but he might have enough time to find out what he wants to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oddly satisfying for me as well.....


	3. A.G.R.A.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has the feeling he is still not getting the whole picture.

Just as John hoped, Mary hadn’t come for Sherlock the previous day. Seemingly, she’d only been attacking his best friend out of some weird sense of jealousy. Alright with him.

What is not alright at all is the fact that he didn’t find anything about her apart from the fact that Mary Morstan is dead. He would have been surprised if her name had been real, though.

At one point in the evening, John had realised that Mycroft probably already knew where he was, using CCTV and his spies. A cautious glance towards the other side of the street gave him confirmation as Sherlock was looking outside playing the violin. John is still not sure what the consulting detective deduced as his reasons for leaving Mary, not after they shared a small glance from window to window. He would have expected the nosey man to come over and demand an explanation but all that had happened was a wink hidden behind the violin in a flourishing motion.

The short distraction took his mind of the problem at hand just long enough to make him realise that there were still real life sources he hadn’t used.

 

\----------------------

18th May

 

This time, John only waited for Mary to leave the room to begin searching through her drawers. There is not much to find aside of underwear he’s never seen her in and contraceptives he didn’t know she was taking.

Frustrated, he is standing in the middle of the living room for 5 long minutes until he manages to change his point of view. The millionth time he envies Sherlock’s fast mind.

Something obvious hidden in plain sight. 

He is walking slowly through every room. It feels like an eternity that he is scanning every minute detail of the environment he has learned to ignore.

 

A key on the key hooks. Fits nothing in the flat. Small, serially numbered, lacerated from overuse.

It takes him about 10 minutes to find out which bank the small locker key belongs to, calls a cab and stuff everything he needs into a backpack.

He avoids the topic of marriage during the cab ride.

 

\------------

A.G.R.A. 

The USB stick is the only thing in the deposit box. John has even searched for a hidden compartment inside the metal box but there is nothing else.

The letters written onto the old storage media don’t ring a bell and the writing doesn’t look like Mary’s but John’s body knows something he doesn’t. His heartbeat quickens as soon as he takes the USB stick out and drops it into his inner pocket.

 

He hurrys to Baker Street to avoid arriving there at the same time as Sherlock. He’d rather not watch him get shot again or repeat bleeding out himself.

 

Alexandra Georgette Rosemarie Aldenhagen. Well if that isn’t the ugliest name John has ever heard. He might be biased, though.

For a short moment, her former fiancée wonders why she would keep something as compromising as this USB stick but the longer he skims through the various files the more he realizes that this is the equivalent of a job application.

John feels bile rise in his throat. He hasn’t even read all of it and already lost count of the exact number of Mary’s jobs.

Hes even heard of one or two. Ned Ryerson, for example. An American politician that had gotten famous over an insurance scandal. Phil Connors is still serving for this one, as far as John knows.

He has to close the laptop for a few minutes. That is the person he was planning to marry, he thinks as he looks out the window. Sherlock and him share a long gaze over the violin during which the consulting detective undoubtedly discerns everything about John’s emotional state.

It is amazing how wrong one can be about someone's character. He had only seen the strong, funny, clever and unpredictable aspects of her personality. She had held his interest far longer than any other woman. Of course, he’d wanted this to work. Had done everything to ignore the nagging doubt that had began to grow shortly before Sherlock returned from the supposedly dead.

John swears to remember watching Sherlock’s little happy jump tomorrow as he delves back into the abysses of Mary’s past.

 

\--------------

18th May

32 GB of tribulations are laying behind him. The worst is not the content but rather the obvious pride with which all these atrocities have been stored and organised.

There is nothing regarding John on the stick but people don’t usually write their failures into a CV so he has no doubt that she was telling the truth before he shot her.

 

He takes a break from bringing everything in a chronological order and watches Sherlock’s outbreak of happiness.

 

\-------------

18th May

Sherlock knew something. Must have known that Mary was not who she claimed to be. There is no logical explanation for the consulting detective to be as sympathetic as to leave John to his own devices.

\-------------

18th May

 

John is sipping his tea as the parlor door is pushed open and an alerted consulting detective enters. His eyes drift over the cup of tea to the USB stick placed in the middle of the sofa table. Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock grabs it and crosses to his laptop.

John doesn’t say anything while he waits for the moment to ask questions.

 

Half an hour later, Sherlock turns around, guilt and worry edging deep lines into his face.

“How much did you know.” John asks, forcibly calm.

“Apparently not even a quarter of it.”

Throwing his hands up and getting off the sofa, John shakes his head.

“How could YOU possibly not know?” Then it dawns on him. “Wait. You knew she wasn’t who she claimed to be.” Sherlock nods.

“So you just didn’t bother to find out?”  It is a rhetorical question but Sherlock was never very good at shutting up.

“I…Decided not to.”

“You….Decided.” John is so angry he wants to kick something. Preferably Sherlock.

“What did you decide, hm? That I didn’t need to know? That it is perfectly ok for the most important people in my life to keep LYING TO ME?” His voice has taken a dangerous edge, he knows. Mrs. Hudson must have heard him by now but there is no sign of her yet.

“The two people that love me most…” He mutters to himself. It hurts. He doesn’t trust easily. Never has. 

 

He wants to trust Sherlock, though. “Why?”

“You chose her.” It is an accusation badly hidden behind a fact.

“What?” John is caught off guard. He is not as bad at subtext as everybody seems to think. “Is this some form of punishment?” His jaw clenches as he tries to wait for an answer instead of just exploding right away.

“No, John. I know you don’t see it but… You change people. You changed… me.” Sherlock’s voice is meant to calm him but it makes John even more angry. He does not like being out of his depth.

“Go on.” He demands.

“I knew she had a secret past. Possibly a violent one. But I didn’t expect it to be this… fatal. You love…”

“Loved.”

“...loved her and she apparently loves you and I hadn’t expected you to be so affected by my death. I decided that I would not interfere with your newly found domesticity if that was what you wanted. So, yes, I decided to ignore my deductions this time. I expected her to be changed by you. The same way you changed me.” He concludes as if he has just stated the most logical explanation.

“So it is my fault? Why is it always MY FAULT?” John tries to hold back but he is extremely close to completely losing it.

There is no answer coming from Sherlock, just a sympathetic look through his lashes.

John needs time. Fortunately, that is something he has plentiful.

 

Storming out of 221B, he makes it to the next corner.

Mary hisses “I knew it!” before shooting a bullet into his right temple.

 

\--------------

18th May

 

John barely avoids strangling the assassin that wakes him with a kiss and spends all day reading “The Picture Of Dorian Gray”.

 

 

\--------------

18th May

He can’t finish “Web Of Lies” and sits by the open window listening to Sherlock playing the violin.

 

 

\--------------

18th May

John doesn’t understand the hype around Breaking Bad.

 

\--------------

18th May

House MD is something he enjoys a great deal. He misses Sherlock.

 

\--------------

18th May

House MD is still good.

 

\--------------

18th May

Not even Stephen Kings “Blaze” makes John feel any sympathy for Mary.

 

\--------------

18th May

He has been watching Sherlock since he came home. 15 minutes after the obligatory happy jump the detective receives a text. Since then, every few minutes the slim figure passes the window and they share a look. John has the feeling he is still not getting the whole picture.

Sherlock plays the violin to help him think.

Time to catch up with the things he wanted to examine tomorrow.

 

\--------------

18th May

Trying to be less oblivious, John reads “The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks”. John identifies with the strong calm NAVY SEAL.

 

It’s pretty gay.

 

\--------------

18th May

John considers the idea that he didn’t get married and that maybe Sherlock is newly divorced.

“The Elegant Corpse” is a really good book.

 

\--------------

18th May

Sadly, Sherlock hasn’t had a chance to get used to John’s rather affectionate hugs. He has not recovered yet from the physical attention he received upon entering his flat. John’s just standing there fidgeting awkwardly and waiting for the lanky detective to finish processing.

“Um, Sherlock?”

…

“You still there?” He watches the frozen man’s fingers twitch. “Ok…”

John knew that it would be too much (Again.) but after keeping his distance for so many days he was just glad to be able to talk to Sherlock.

Shrugging, he begins unpacking the things he brought.

 

As soon as he’s filled a bowl with biscuits, Sherlock sits down in front of him with an incredulous look on his face.

“What was that for?”  He enquires bewildered.

Interesting.

“Best friends hug.” John counters. It’s not a golden rule but true enough for some.

Sherlock files this away and nods before unknowingly repeating himself.

“You are not going to get married today.” 

John shakes his head decisively.

“Care to explain?” 

“My fiancée is an international assassin with an unprecedented potential for aggression and the habit of shooting me out of hurt pride.”

“She shot you?” Sherlock asks, raising an eyebrow and scanning John physical appearance.

“Today? Not yet. Give her half an hour.” This is notwhat he meant to say but the urge to tell someone, talk to someone, is overwhelming.

The consulting detective leans forward, squinting at John’s eyes and hands.

“Do you feel dizzy or exhilarated? Is it difficult to control your movements or is there maybe a..”

“I am not drugged, Sherlock.” John interrupts. Not for the first time, he is glad to know that this will never have happened when he wakes up. “I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Instead of participating in your wedding?”

“Yes.”

“Do go on.” Sherlock leans back into his chair, probably waiting for John to ask about the laws of physics, different types of ashes or the history of forensics.

“Um… Do you still consider yourself married to your work?” The detective is obviously taken aback, the biscuit he is munching on forgotten in his hand.

“I...do?” He replies cautiously. He is just taking a deep breath to, undoubtedly destroy any impression of insecurity when a hand is held up to stop him.

They sit in awkward silence while John decides for a new course of action.

 

“Have you ever considered not to be monogamous?” John doesn’t know how else to ask this. He does hope to be  part of the work but also… more.

“I am not certain I understand correctly.” Sherlock states cooly.

“I think you do.”

“Are you proposing me, John?” Sherlock looks a bit like drinking tea without sugar. That’s probably how he feels, too.

“And if I was?” Insecurity is spreading in his chest but he is not willing to back down now.

“Is this your version of cold feet?” The reaction is a stunning display of defensiveness and hurt.

“This is my version of admitting that my declarations of not-being-gay do not necessarily mean straight.” He sounds more angry than honest but that’s just how he deals with talking about feelings.

 

After a filing that information away, too, the tension seems to leave Sherlock’s shoulders. “You really meant it when you said ‘Its all fine.’.”

John smiles at him, glad he finally understood. He does not know how to go on from here, though. He checks his watch.

“Since we are gonna get shot in a few minutes…” He says, getting up from the sofa and crossing to Sherlock’s chair. As he bends down, the consulting detective’s eyes widen comically but he makes no move to avoid the chaste touch of lips.

“You mean it.” Sherlock concludes aloud.

“I do. We should go out now. I’d rather get it over with.” Without preamble, John draws his gun and motions for Sherlock to follow him.

 

There is no one on Baker Street. No cars or passers by, John notices relieved. Sherlock is watching him with rapt attention but keeps from pointing out the questionability of walking in public with a gun on display. He seems ready to intervene if necessary, though.

 

Almost at the next corner, Mary comes in sight. Immediately she pulls a gun from her white wedding dress purse. It’s one of the strangest things John has every seen and the surprised sound coming from Sherlock indicates that the same is true for him.

This time prepared, John shoves the taller man aside and takes a step forward. Aiming purposefully, he pulls the trigger in sync with Mary. It sounds like only one shot is fired as both of them drop to the ground. While falling, Mary shoots a second time and John hears a small grunt of pain from behind him. There is nothing he can do, the world already starts to fade around him.

_ Please God, let him live. _

 

\--------------

18th May

Interestingly so, the sensation of getting shot doesn’t wear off. Especially not when one is waking up in bed with one’s murderer right after.

John huffs a breath at the prospect of repeating that day. Again. By now, he has lost the hope that there is going to be a tomorrow. Looking back, the feedback loop he is stuck in has served him just as much as it is taunting him.

He isn’t sure if dying for real wouldn’t be preferable to waking up beside Mary.

 

Today he doesn’t pack anything and ignores the existence of the USB stick in a locker in Camden Town entirely. Going straight to Baker Street, he almost runs into Mrs. Hudson leaving for his supposed wedding. Hiding in Speedy’s, he watches her being picked up by Lestrade. 

John decides that he can buy something tasty and heavy without having to worry about his health. And Sherlock can use the calories, anyway.

He wants to send a text demanding the consulting detective to leave the wedding and come home but it would only steal more of their time together instead of giving them some.

Patiently, he sits in the kitchen nibbling a bacon sandwich and waiting for Sherlock. 

 

Cautiously, the consulting detective is peering into the kitchen before he relaxes upon seeing that John is the supposed intruder.

 

“No, I am not going to get married today. As you already know, she has a secret past. She is an assassin with a body count longer than your bloody neck. She will come for us in about 40 minutes, assuming that I left her for you, what is not entirely wrong.” John rattles down, offhandedly.

“No, I am not on drugs if you are thinking this right now.” He adds to be on the safe side.

“I’ve got two questions.” Sherlock states a little surprised.

“Yes?”

“Do you have any proof?”

“A USB stick in a locker at HSBC Bank Camden Town.I’ve got the key with me” 

The consulting detective nods as he pulls out his phone and sends a text.

“And the other one?” John prompts.

“You are not planning to marry her, at all?”

“No. Obviously not.” He replies irritated.”That is your question? What about the part where I told you that you are one of the reasons why I am not marrying her?” Sherlock’s ability to miss the subtle aspects of personal information really is astounding sometimes. Walking up and down the kitchen, John begins to question his own infatuation.

“Oh. Yes. I noticed you miss the excitement of working cases. I thought you’d keep on helping me every now and then. You said you would.”

“You are not your work, Sherlock! Are you being ignorant on purpose?” He massages the bridge of his nose between two fingers to ease the oncoming headache.

“Well, the only other explanation would be that you are willing to correct your declarations of not-being-gay.” Sherlock drawls.

“I am not correcting. I am merely elaborating to make you understand that I am…” 

“Bisexual?” Sherlock, apparently awed,  fills in as John draws a steadying breath to bolster his courage.

“In love with you, Sherlock! I AM IN LOVE WITH YOU!” 

That was a bit more bravery than he’d meant to summon. In the sudden silence filling the flat, John can hear Mrs. Hudson a floor deeper, cheering loudly.

 

If that was possible, Sherlock would be blinking forever without moving any other part of his body. As it is, both their phones are vibrating at the same time

**5 Minutes. Get in the car.**

Of course it is Mycroft.

**How do I reboot you brother?**

John doesn’t get an answer.

 

He shouldn’t exploit the situation but it’s just too easy to bend down and press a lingering kiss onto the madman’s lips.

“And now… up we go!” He says, pushing his hands under Sherlock’s arms and pulling him from the chair into a standing position.

“You can process later. We need to get ready.” John explains calmly before pulling Sherlock down the stairs one step at a time.

 

They are throwing the door open and running to the armoured van, covered by 6 men in expensive suits. One is following them inside the back while three keep guarding the car doors and 2 get in the front seats.

“The key!” Mycroft’s miserable underling demands.

John takes it from his pocket and puts it in his outstretched hand, telling him “She is somewhere close by. Definitely watching us.”.

Both of them are scanning the street looking through the car windows as the vehicle drives off.

A minute later, John feels Sherlock’s long fingers close around his hand. With a small smile, the consulting detective is looking into the distance muttering to himself “There’s always something.”.

 

They stop in front of the HSBC Bank at Camden Town and their escort gets out to get the USB stick before Mary has the chance to let it vanish.

As they are alone, Sherlock turns towards John.

“How did you find out?” It is not arrogant or insulting, the only expression on his face curiosity.

“By applying your methods.” John answers, lightly squeezing the still smiling man’s fingers. They look down and watch as John entwines their fingers, leaving no doubt about his intentions and sincerity.

“I mean it. I…” The car door opens and interrupts John’s attempt at emotional intimacy. He doesn’t know how much longer they have. If they get shot or die in a car accident. Maybe Mary blows them up with a rocket launcher.

Sparing the stranger sitting opposite him no glance, John raises Sherlock’s hand to his lips and presses a quick kiss to the inside of his palm.

“I really do.” He knows Sherlock understood by the deep blush spreading in the consulting detective’s face.

 

\--------

 

As soon as they reach the Diogenes, Sherlock works his way through the data on Mary exchanging views with his brother every now and then. There are several files on Mycroft’s desk that make John wonder, just how much his life was willingly risked.

He’s going to find out later, he decides.

“Boys!” He rudely interrupts both Holmes’ in their exchange.

“This time we do it my way and there is not going to be a debate.” They don’t know it yet but he has a plan.

 

\---------

 

Mary’s anger is cold. She draws a calm breath, her sole focus on the task at hand. For the last 3 hours, she followed John’s every move either herself or using the city’s CCTV.

The fact that her relationship with the doctor is ending like that feels natural to her. The moment Sherlock came back from the dead, her grip on John had been loose at best. She is just annoyed that, having started as a nurse in the A+E shortly before Sherlock had taken the fall, more than 2 years of work were apparently wasted. Part of her instruction had been to get close to the doctor and thus close to Sherlock Holmes. When the consulting detective was gone, not everybody believed him dead as readily as John Watson so her contract was kept intact.

It was a long, frustrating and boring time and Mary is not sad at all to get it over with. The fake pregnancy she had planned would have been a pain in the ass to pull off.

Sitting on the roof, a callous grin forms on her face.

 

The black van stops in front of 221B and John exits hurriedly.The whole street is blocked to traffic, a security man at every corner. Mary watches as the door closes behind Sherlock’s long dark coat and the two man vanish out of sight. Patiently, she waits until John is visible through the parlor window.

The target cross follows him until there is no obstacle in the way and the doctor’s temple is enlarged in it’s center. 

“Bye, bye, Johnny.” She whispers coldly.

“I don’t think so.” Sherlock’s deep voice is just as callous as he pulls the trigger on John’s gun.

 

\--------------

**Problem solved.**

John reads between the lines of this one line, releasing a sigh of relief.

When he told them about his plan to get a double for Sherlock, Mycroft had been absolutely against it and while the consulting detective himself had been surprisingly quiet during the exchange, John had remained unmovable.

Vehemently, he had fought about the fact that he definitely knew Mary good enough to predict her steps.

There was only one person in the world he trusted with his life. Obviously, he had been right.

 

“Alright, alright! You can leave all leave now. Thank you for standing by. We don’t need you here, anymore.” John addresses the security guards lingering in the hallway with a shooing gesture. “And tell your boss to sod off for the next days.” He adds smugly.

 

Following to make sure that every single minion left, John locks the door as soon as he is alone with Mrs. Hudson.

Her expression a mixture between discomfort and happiness, they hug for a long moment.

“Oh, John. This should have been your wedding day. I’m so sorry.” A small hand clutches his shoulder in a supportive gesture.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Hudson. I assure you, this is exactly the way I wanted this day to turn out.” Her face goes slack, the hand dropping by her side,

“John, how could you say..” Her raised voice as alarmed as John has ever heard it.

“No, no. I didn’t mean...this.” He moves one arm in an all encompassing gesture. “I mean THIS.” It’s the exact same gesture but Mrs. Hudson gets it anyway and quiets. “Would you mind leaving us to our own this evening as soon as Sherlock shows up?” John asks with all the charm he can muster, unable to hide a happy smile.

“Of course. You know, when these nice men were here, I gave one of them, Julian, a grocery list. I know you two have nothing edible up there so I thought...” She finishes with a shrug.

John grins amused. Only Mrs. Hudson would let government security personnel run errands for her.

“You are an angel!” He exclaims  pressing a kiss onto her cheek and running up the stairs.

“I will call you when dinner's ready.” She yells after him.

 

\---------

Sherlock follows the smell of fresh beef and green beans up the stairs. At least that’s what John imagines as he hears the tall man coming up. 

“She is dead. I shot her.” Sherlock greets him. He probably hasn’t even noticed the food on the table.

“I know and I don’t care.” John really doesn’t. He wants to have a nice dinner with Sherlock and probably make out until he’s forcefully pushed back into the nightmare that is this day’s morning.

 

Sherlock raises his eyebrows at that but doesn’t comment as he sits down beside John where there is already a plate waiting for him.

“Dinner?” John asks, beginning to scatter food on his own plate.

“Starving.” Sherlock answers with a fond smile. He barely waits until there is a little bit of everything before he starts digging in.

They eat in silence, holding hands under the table like the besotted idiots they are. John has never been that glad that he is left-handed.

It’s already dark when they finish with a glas of wine brought up by Mrs. Hudson with a cheeky wink.

Before the mood has a chance to get awkward, John stands up and moves to Sherlock’s bedroom. Stopping in the doorway, he turns around holding out a hand.

“Coming?” He asks softly.

Sherlock is already walking towards him when he stops in his tracks.

“You have changed.”

“I had a long day. Do you mind?” John is way too tired to pretend he didn’t.

“I don't think so. No.” Sherlock answers, taking his hand.

  
  


John pulls the taller man slowly into his arms. He doesn’t want to risk Sherlock being overwhelmed by his affection. With a hand in his neck, he pulls him down into a languid kiss. Sherlock’s lips are soft and pliant against John’s as they part fractionally. It’s their first real kiss. Just thinking about losing all of this tomorrow, makes John’s heart clench painfully and his arms tighten their embrace.

He lets his hands glide down over the curve of Sherlock’s back and arse. It’s almost too much to handle for his exhausted brain. Sliding his tongue between the offered lips once, John takes a step back breaking their connection.

“Bed?” He proposes, hopefully looking up into attentive grey eyes.

“Yes.” Sherlock simply agrees.

Slowly, watching each other, they both begin unbuttoning their shirts and slipping out of their shoes. John places every piece of clothing on the chair facing the bathroom door (He will definitely ask about that.) while Sherlock just throws everything to the floor, his eyes never leaving John’s.

It’s a weird kind of foreplay in a way. But that’s just how they work. They revolve around each other and the experiences they share, sparing no thought to the rest of the world. 

John neatly places his pants on the stack of clothing when Sherlock crosses the meager distance between them and presses his gloriously naked body against him.His hands roam over John’s shoulders and chest before they settle on his hips. Full lips are wandering down the tanned neck spreading feather light kisses on the way. John’s eyes close under the tender touch. It is so unexpected that Sherlock could be like this that every brush of lips feels much more intense to him. Less refined, John pushes his left thigh between Sherlock’s while pulling the man closer. 

Their lips meet again as they embrace each other. John feels rather than hears a small rumbling moan rising in the body underneath his fingers as their tongues touch. It’s been a long time since he has felt tranquility like that touching somebody.

He can already feel Sherlock harden against his stomach but the taller man doesn’t seem any more inclined to hurry than John as he begins to move his hips in circular motions.

“Sherlock?” He whispers into the kiss.

“Yes?”

“Bed?”

“Yes.” 

There is no movement apart from the constant push and pull of lips against each other and the short aborted thrusts of hips. One of them will have to do something or they will go on like this all night. Which wouldn’t be horrible but… just but.

Determinately, John pushes Sherlock backwards. It brings enough space between them to acknowledge the proximity of their hard cocks. Fascinated, he watches as Sherlock brushes two fingers over the head of his own hard length. He swallows hard at the prospect of those fingers on him while he gives the permissive man a shove that sends him tumbling on the bed.

John has never slept with a man and is certainly no expert in this field but he has certain ideas. Kneeling over Sherlock’s thighs, he bends down to kiss a pale collar bone before capturing the reddened lips with his mouth. Kissing Sherlock seems to be just as addictive as the man himself.

The pale hands settle on his hips again, pulling him down to align the hard flesh between them. Sherlock makes a questioning sound against his tongue so John grunts his approval before he experimentally thrusts his hips and feels the silky skin of Sherlock’s cock glide against his own arousal.

It’s a bit dry. Just as John wants to ask if there is something lube-like close by Sherlock brings a long-fingered hand between them and presses their lengths together. A groan is forced from his throat when the clever man begins to move his hips and hand in a seemingly complicated rhythm.

He loves this man. It feels wonderful. Perfect even. John thrusts without deciding to. Pushes into the tight grip around his cock. Feeling Sherlock’s shaft against his own. Watches as the full lips fall open and dilated eyes close. The kissing stopped. Their lips barely touching.

“I love you. I love you. I love you…” He whispers constantly while his body moves of his own accord.

His name is breathed against his own lips. Softly. Passionately. Tightness coils low in his guts. It’s too much. Too much to hold on to. He wants to though.

Sherlock’s pace quickens underneath him. The pale body flushed and tense.

“Yes.” He hears himself say. “Yes. Please.” John wants to see. Needs to.

“John.” Sherlock sighs again. The ragged breath louder than his name.

John thrusts, breathes, moans. All at the same time. They are here. They are alive. He is in love.

Sherlock’s cock hardens against his, the detectives hips moving erratically.  _ Yes.  _ John thinks.  _ God, yes. _

Perfect lips shape a perfect O as Sherlock comes hard between them, his back raised from the mattress under the force of his orgasm.

Desperate, John holds himself still until Sherlock stops shaking.

Forcefully, he thrust into his own hand one, two, three times.

 

John’s arms are shaking as he opens his eyes only to see a smiling consulting detective watching him. Exhausted, he drops onto the mattress catching his breath.

He is tired, afraid and happy all at once as his fingers draw lazy circles on Sherlock’s thighs.

“I don’t want to go.” He admits quietly.

“Why would you?” Sherlock asks in return, covering them both with a heavy blanket. John hopes he doesn’t have to and presses up against the man he loves.

 

 

\----------------

19th May

Lips press a chaste kiss onto his forehead as he blinks his eyes open. Shocked, he sits up and bangs painfully against Sherlock’s rather thick skull. 

“Ow, John! What the… hell?” 

“Shit, I’m sorry I was just….It’s tomorrow!” John exclaims excitedly.

“Well, some people would say it is today.” Sherlock mutters while rubbing the already forming bump on his cheekbone.

“It’s TOMORROW and I am in your bed. Naked.” He yells, grinning madly.

Sherlock looks as if he’s just remembering something.

“I mean… I’m here. I. Woke. Up. Here…. Sherlock, what…” John is rudely interrupted by a mouth around his soft length while a small answering humm is all the explanation he gets.

 

Thick curls tickle the inside of his thighs as John falls back onto the mattress.

They can definitely talk about this another time. Maybe tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it folks. It's out of my system. This is still unbetaed aside of the helpful insights kindly given by @ertal77 .
> 
> Thank you for reading. I truly appreciate it.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry? You have been warned, though.
> 
> Here's the important part of Sherlock's speech:
> 
>  
> 
> “If I burden myself with a little helpmate during my adventures, this is not out of sentiment or caprice. It is that he has many fine qualities of his own he has overlooked in his obsession with me. Indeed, any reputation I have for mental acuity and sharpness comes, in truth, from the extraordinary contrast John so selflessly provides. It is a fact, I believe, that brides tend to favor exceptionally plain bridesmaids for their big day… there is a certain analogy there, I feel - and contrast is, after all, God's own plan to enhance the beauty of his creation. Or it would be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy, designed to provide a career opportunity for the family idiot.  
> Point I'm trying to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I am dismissive of the virtuous,  
> unaware of the beautiful,  
> and uncomprehending in the face of the happy,  
> so if I didn't understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody's best friend, and certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.  
> I'm afraid, John, I can't congratulate you. All emotions - and in particular love - stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things. A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world. Today we honor the deathwatch beetle that is the doom of our society and - in time, one feels certain - our entire species.  
> Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable.  
> John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss, so know this: today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved – in short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that."


End file.
